


Pickin' Up The Pieces

by scrapbullet



Series: Young at Heart [2]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Babysitting, Daddy Archy, Ficlet, Gen, Infantilism, Little Johnny, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Beta Read, Temper Tantrums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The floor isn’t very comfortable. Pete, despite having spent nights sleeping in bins and thus being used to such things, has a numb arse. When Archy, fucking terrifying he may be, asks you to look after his boy for a few hours, though, you don’t question him. You keep schtum and just do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickin' Up The Pieces

“So what do you think of those Lego sets, eh?” 

The floor isn’t very comfortable. Pete, despite having spent nights sleeping in bins and thus being used to such things, has a numb arse. When Archy, fucking terrifying he may be, asks you to look after his boy for a few hours, though, you don’t question him. You keep schtum and just do it.

It’s worth it, though. Seeing his mate so relaxed and _happy_ is like a punch in the gut. _Profound_ , like. 

Even if his arse cheeks have gone to sleep.

Johnny, on the other hand, is happy as Larry. Sprawled out on his belly with an expression of intense concentration on his face he sorts through the brightly coloured blocks with obvious enthusiasm. 

Hell, Pete hasn’t seen him this focused since Johnny sat his backside down and wrote an album stone cold sober. 

“Nope,” he says, chewing on his lower lip and flapping a hand in Pete’s general direction in apparent derision. “Daddy says they’re not sti-,” Johnny scowls, face twisting, struggling to grasp at the word his Daddy had used. “Stimoo-”

“Stimulating?” Pete offers, fingers absently playing with a small tower of interconnected bricks.

Johnny hums in reply. He’s already forgotten what he was saying, too busy separating the bricks by colour. His hands, usually quick and dexterous, fumble over clicking them together. The tower he begins to construct, though, is genius considering the current age of his head space. Today, Johnny is five years old, and at the youngest Pete has ever seen.

Pete, unable to help himself, grins. It’s cute, is what it is. “So what are you building? A tower? S’pretty cool.” Plucking a red brick from the pile he leans forward, ready to pop it into place-

“The blue goes first!” Johnny grabs at the plastic and plonks it back down on the carpet. “The blue always goes first.”

Holding his hands up, placating, Pete stifles a laugh. “Alrigh’, alrigh’. Blue it is, then.”

Between the two of them the tower they build is impressive. Only a little wider at the base than at the top, Johnny has to reach up on wobbly knees to add the finishing touches, brow pinched and face so adorably serious. It’s as if building a tower made of Lego is the most important thing little Johnny has ever done -so proud he is of completing it, eyes bright with joy and smile childishly wide - so of course, all it takes is one young, uncoordinated limb to knock against it and it all comes toppling down.

And we ain’t just talking literally.

Johnny’s face goes blank, and the hollow feeling in Pete’s gut as he watches those eyes, so happy only moments ago, begin to well with tears makes him feel sick. 

The sobs, though gut-wrenching, are nothing compared to the tantrum Johnny proceeds to throw, however.

It’s the kind of chaos that Johnny Quid, when he’s big, is well-known for, though not exactly as usual. Plastic blocks are thrown this way and that, kicked across the floor and trodden on, and all the time Johnny emits a sound so high-pitched and feral that it takes a minute or so for Pete to get his arse in gear. 

Archy’s number, programmed in Pete’s mobile, is the first one on speed dial.

Twenty minutes doesn’t seem so long when you’re flying high on drugs and adrenaline, but when you’re watching an upset little make a hell of a mess, well, it seems to take forever. Johnny is strong, all lean corded muscle with absolutely no intent but wanton destruction, arms flailing, face red with frustration, and Pete... Well, Pete’s just the little guy, yeah? How’s he meant to safely restrain Johnny and keep him from harming himself?

Johnny doesn’t stop his tantrum even when Archy strides in to the room, stuffing car keys into his pocket, dishevelled. “Now what’s all this about, then?”

Johnny deflates like a puppet with its strings cut. He flops onto the pile of Lego with a noise not-unlike a growl, uncaring as the plastic blocks dig in to his skin. 

Archy looks exhausted, but that doesn’t stop him from crouching down and ruffling Johnny’s hair. It gets him nothing more than a wiggle; worn out. “Losing your temper gets you nowhere, lad,” Archy says, soft and genial as, with a slight grunt, he slips his arms underneath the unhappy little and scoops him up. “Are you calm now, hm? No more throwing wobblies?”

Burying his face in Archy’s shoulder, Johnny huffs out a sigh. “M’thirsty.”

Archy cocks an eyebrow, amused. “Oh really? Well then, best we be getting you something to drink then, eh? And when we get back we can both tidy up this lovely mess you’ve made...” 

Johnny kicks his feet against Archy’s shins. “Nooo.”

Ignored, Pete eyes the chaos with trepidation as Archy carries Johnny through into the kitchen, murmuring nonsensically. Well, it wouldn’t hurt if he got most of it tidied up before they get back, would it?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing anymore.


End file.
